


All the Sunken Cities

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babies, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: Eighteen months ago, if someone had asked him to choose which direction his life was about to take from a list of increasingly improbable scenarios, Dean wouldn’t have even considered puttingRaising the Antichriston his shortlist





	All the Sunken Cities

**Author's Note:**

> I will never cease to be disappointed that we didn't get to see the boys trying to manage Jack as a baby. This was originally supposed to be funnier? It became a sap-fest instead, because this is who I am.
> 
> (Title from The Decembersts "Lake Song," though not because it has much thematic relevance beyond the line itself.)

Jack cries like he’s dying.

The sound doesn’t only fill the bunker, but seems to expand it, like the walls are flexing under the impact. The bookshelves vibrate, the lights flicker. Dean presses the heels of his hands into the delicate cartilage of his ears and feels the foundations of his skull shaking.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I can’t find his binky,” Cas says, dire; in a voice that once pronounced ruin, the coming of floods, the Wrath and the Judgement.

Dean says, “Shit.”

Eighteen months ago, if someone had asked him to choose which direction his life was about to take from a list of increasingly improbable scenarios, Dean wouldn’t have even considered putting _Raising the Antichrist_ on his shortlist - forget about putting it down for front-runner; but now, here he is, on his hands and knees underneath the bunker’s kitchen table, fishing out a lost soother, as the walls around him shudder in the face of impotent toddler rage.

He rises it, haphazardly, in the sink - reflecting only briefly on those early days when Cas insisted on boiling _everything_ ; to the point that Dean once cracked that it would be easier, and faster, just to boil the _kid_ , instead - and all but claps it into Jack’s wide, wailing mouth.

The silence is like a vacuum. Dean’s ears pop. Jack snuffles wetly for a moment, then says, morosely, “Thank you,” though with his inexact grasp of language and the soother in his mouth it sounds more like _ang ooo_ , before settling his reddened, puffy face against Cas’ shoulder.

“You know,” Dean says, slowly, still hearing his own voice like he’s underwater. “We are going to have to wean him off that thing, eventually.”

The long look Cas gives him can mean only one thing: _I’d like to see you try_. “I think I’ll put him down for his nap, now,” he says, instead.

And this is the weird rhythm their lives have settled into.

Cas is on baby duty, ninety percent of the time. This is down to several intersecting factors, not least of all that Jack can - and does - tap directly into into Cas’ angel radio to express what he wants and needs. 

(It’s an inexact science, at least according to Cas; not so much thought as _impression_ and _emotion_ , but it gets the job done)

Dean, more times than not, backs him up, since Sam is still traumatized by that early diaper incident, and Mary gets look in her eye that’s borderline dangerous when she’s homebound for more than a couple of days. At first, Dean had only volunteered to do baby duty at all because he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it still hasn’t; and - bouts of unholy screaming aside - it’s hard to look at Jack now, chubby and grinning as he stuffs goldfish crackers into his mouth, or squealing with laughter as Sam lifts him into the sky and spins him around, and think he’s evil.

At least, any _more_ evil than your typical toddler.

These days, Dean almost never looks at Jack and thinks _Lucifer’s kid_ ; he thinks…

“Dee…” Jack burbles, tiredly, just barely shifting himself around in Cas’ arms so he can reach for Dean with chubby hands.

“Yeah, yeah - c’mere buddy,” Dean sighs, lifting him easily. “Don’t think this means you’re getting out of nap time.”

Jack room isn’t much of a nursery, really, still being part of the bunker and all; but it has a few stuffed animals, a picture of Jack’s mom, and a devil’s trap painted under the crib.

(There are some concessions Dean will make, and some he will emphatically not.)

It takes a few minutes to settle Jack in. No matter how tired he is, the kid always puts up a fight, squirming and grunting, kicking his onesie-covered feet against the bottom of his crib; but Dean’s got his number these days. A little belly rubbing, some mindless noises to the tune of whatever Dean happens to have stuck in his head, and he’s out like a light. Dean slinks out and shuts the door most of the way, makes sure to leave the baby monitor on, like they won’t be able to hear the kid cry from clear across the state.

***

They try to get Jack out of the bunker at least a couple of times a week. The kid can’t actually grow up underground - well, he can, but he _shouldn’t_ \- the same way kids shouldn’t grow up alternately in motels and the back seat of a classic car (Dean’s becoming increasingly aware that even attempting to say that the latter worked for him is to grossly oversimplify the meaning of the word _work_.)

A lot of the time, it’s just _outside_. Jack loves the grass, the trees, the wind - Jack loves everything. It’s all “ooh” and stuffing handfuls of dead leaves in his mouth, and Cas saying “look, Jack,” and rattling off the scientific names of things, until Dean just laughs and says, “it’s a bird, Cas. You can just say _bird _” and Jack says, “aaaaaah!” and breaks into a run, faster than anything with legs that short should be able to move.__

____

____

According to Cas, Jack already has his own set of wings. Dean can’t see them, but wings or no wings, the kid sure can _fly_. 

*** 

On days when they’re feeling particularly brave, bored, or stir crazy, they’ll take Jack to a diner, a few miles down the road. They’ve done it enough times that most everyone knows them, and all the waitresses think Jack is just the cutest thing they’ve ever seen. Dean has even learned to ignore the way the tops of his ears burn, every time someone makes the mistake of calling him and Cas as Jack’s _daddies._ At least nobody hassles them about it, because they’ve had that, too. 

They settle Jack into one of the crooked wooden highchairs and let him go to town with crayons, while they eat burgers, drink coffee, and talk about things that aren’t monsters, angels, or the uncountable legions of hell. The food is cheap, and far and away from being the worst thing Dean has ever eaten. More importantly they have homemade pie of the apple, blueberry and pecan varieties. Jack’s eyes light up no matter which one Dean orders, because he knows he’s entitled to at least two bites. 

He likes them all, but the blueberry is his favourite; and even Dean will admit there’s something adorable about him when his lips are stained bright purple. 

*** 

They almost lost Jack when he was eight months old. 

It happened so damn fast. Dean still breaks into a cold sweat sometimes, remembering those sharp seconds, when he stepped out of the motel office, looked up from tucking his wallet away into his pocket, and saw the flash of an angel blade, saw Sam and Cas tangling with an angel each, and a third reaching for Jack, strapped into his car seat, through the open backseat window. 

Dean had been so sure that he wasn’t going to get there in time, his feet like lead, his brain on an endless loop: _Jack Jack Jack_. The fear was like a needle being driven into his brain, even as he grabbed the bastard by the back of his shirt and hauled him away from the car, tearing one of the straps on Jack’s car seat in the process. 

He doesn’t remember if he killed the angel, though he remembers he broke his hand taking a swing at the guy’s jaw. He definitely remembers pulling Jack from the car, probably scaring the poor kid worse than anything; just holding him in the parking lot, saying, “You’re okay, buddy. You’re good. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” 

*** 

“Jack? Jack, where are you?” 

A squeal of laughter, a patter of feet. Dean looks away from the shelf - he can’t find the book Sam asked him for, anyway - and sees Jack waddle by in his rocketship pyjamas. 

“Where ya going, buddy?” 

Jack wheels towards the sound of Dean’s voice, surprised only for a second to see him there, and collides with Dean’s legs just as Cas’ voice rings out again. 

“Jack, where did you go?” 

“Uh-uh!” Jack says, pawing urgently at Dean’s legs; and Dean’s wise to this game already, it’s one of Jack’s favourites. He scoops the kid up and steps back into the stacks, as Jack tries to hold back his giggles, using both of his hands to cover most of his rosy face. 

And here comes Cas, the soft sound of his sock feet on the stone floor underscoring the way he calls Jack’s name, even though he knows - he _has_ to know, because Jack can’t be quiet - that Jack is just around the corner. His shadow moves closer, closer… 

“Boo!” Dean shouts, as Cas steps around the edge of the stack, and Jack squeals with laughter, even though Cas doesn’t so much as flinch. 

“Dean - that’s not…” he starts, but he’s smiling, almost laughing. “ _Dean_.” 

“Got you,” Dean grins, “didn’t we Jack?” 

And Jack just laughs, loud and wild. All the lights in the bunker dance on and off, lit up with a joy impossible to contain. 

*** 

“There’s a hole in your sock.” 

Cas eyes it, disinterested, slouches further down on the couch. Jack is asleep on his chest, drooling on his shirt, fingers wound into the thinning fabric over Cas’ heart. Cas wiggles his foot, and his big toe peeks through. 

Dean presses. “We should get you some more.” He’s never been very successful at convincing Cas to change his wardrobe, though it has slightly more variety these days. It’s easier to chase a small, mobile child in clothes that are both comfortable and flexible. 

“I have others,” Cas says, voice pitched soft. He slides two fingers through the hair by Jack’s ear, and Jack snuffles softly in his sleep. 

“You do?” 

Cas’ lips quirk, wryly. “Yours.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Jack needs new clothes, too.” His ankles are showing at the bottoms of his pyjamas. He’ll need a new coat for winter. Dean should go through his own stuff and see what needs to be replaced, too. Dean rubs a hand across his chin, absently. “Jeez - I need to shave.” 

“I like it,” Cas says, with a speed that suggests he isn’t thinking about the words coming out of his mouth; and Dean can actually see the way he tenses up, tries not to flinch because he doesn’t want to wake Jack up. 

This can’t be what Cas pictured, looking into the future. As pragmatic as he is, Dean’s sure he had a game plan for wandering across the continental US alone, with a baby, playing hide-and-seek with angels and demons, with no one to watch his back; the same way Dean had a plan, sometime long before that day in the parking lot, to...no, he doesn’t want to think about that, now. Cas looks at him, guiltily, and Dean thinks about all the things Cas _says_ Jack likes: _Jack likes when you sing, Jack likes when you laugh, Jack likes when you’re here_ ; and he thinks that it’s been a long time since he stayed behind in the bunker because he was worried something bad might happen. 

Then he leans over, and kisses Cas. 

*** 

It won’t be like this forever. 

Jack can’t grow up in a bunker, even if the angels are out there, and the demons. He’ll need to go to school, even if Cas has _knowledge of countless civilizations, Dean_ ; he’ll need to make friends, to skin his knees, to learn to fly on whatever wings he has. 

But for now, Cas straps him into his car seat and they roll down the highway. Dean sings along to the radio because Jack likes it, because he likes it, because Cas likes it too. They unload at the diner where Mary and Sam will meet them on the way back from an easy hunt, and when they walk in with Jack bouncing on Dean’s hip, the waitress lights up. 

“Who’s the cutest baby in Kansas?” She coos, tickling his cheeks to make him laugh. 

The lights flare bright for an instant, but no one notices, and Jack smiles like the sun. 


End file.
